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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638250">12 Feet Under</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/Youremyalways/pseuds/Youremyalways'>Youremyalways</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Supernatural</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>CPR, Dean Finds Sam, Drowning, Gen, Hunt, Hurt!Sam, Hurt/Comfort, Mental Institution, Psychology, Resuscitation, Sam Whump, Torture, protective!Dean, sam &amp; Dean - Freeform, sam gets taken</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-07-31</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 11:14:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>10,295</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25638250</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/Youremyalways/pseuds/Youremyalways</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>On a hunt that takes them to an abandoned mental Institution, Sam finds himself chained to the bottom of a cement tank with water rising by the second. </p><p>Will Dean find him in time?</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Dean Winchester &amp; Sam Winchester</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>4</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>89</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>12 Feet Under</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>
  <span>Sam thought a lot about how he was going to die.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Getting his blood drained by a vampire. Bleeding out from a bullet wound. Cracking his skull from a too-hard hit on the head. Being choked. Sacrificing himself for the greater good- or for Dean. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sometimes he even thought about a normal death. Like a heart attack, or cancer. Getting into a car crash. Liver disease. Homicide. Okay, well, maybe that last one wasn’t so ‘normal’. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He thought about how he </span>
  <em>
    <span>had</span>
  </em>
  <span> died. A knife through his spine, several bullets buried in his chest, the fall into the pit, being cut off of air, his throat ripped out by a rabid vampire in another world… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And he thought about all the times he </span>
  <em>
    <span>almost </span>
  </em>
  <span>died. There were the most of those; near misses. His soul being shoved back in and the insomnia that followed. The bullet in his gut that Corbin ensured left him for dead. A hit to the head so bad Jack had to save him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Some people daydreamed about vacations and lovers. Beaches and margaritas. Mountains and riversides. Wealth and fame. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Sam</span>
  </em>
  <span> daydreamed about how he would die. He supposed it was just part of the way he lived. Hunters sort of had to be comfortable with the idea of their own demise. They didn’t die of old age, afterall. They died young. They died when they </span>
  <em>
    <span>wanted</span>
  </em>
  <span> to live. So… Sam thought about it. A lot.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But of all the ways he thought he might go… he never, </span>
  <em>
    <span>ever</span>
  </em>
  <span>, thought this would be one of them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bleeding out. Choking. Split skill. Bullet wound. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Those all made sense. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>This</span>
  </em>
  <span> did not. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was supposed to be an easy hunt. The kind of trip they made for the almost guaranteed feeling of a win. There were several deaths that were pretty severely dated, but only nonfatal injuries as of late. Plus, the culprit was very obviously the ghost of Gregory T. McGill. It barely took Sam an hour to dig up everything they needed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Gregory Thomas McGill, known as ‘Tommy’ or ‘Greg’ to close friends, was the lead clinical psychologist at Winnie &amp; Goldberg Mental Institution, more frequently referred to under the acronym, WGMI. The hospital opened in 1919, and closed down forty years later due to multiple violations of Article 5 of the Universal Declaration of Human Rights. Aka, the law that states "No one shall be subjected to torture." Turns out, Doctor Tommy McGill had been subjecting mentally disturbed patients to waterboarding, chinese water torture, whippings, drownings, electroshock therapy, and other varied types of torture for years. He claimed in court that it was an ‘experimental research method’ that brought ‘outstanding results.’ In an interview with the New York Times, McGill was quoted saying, “My research methods go above and beyond. They make the human mind malleable.” Yeah. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Creepy fucking dude</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He unsurprisingly lost his court case, and then lived in federal prison for years before committing suicide at the age of 72. In accordance with his will, his body was later (</span>
  <em>
    <span>And get this…) </span>
  </em>
  <span>returned to the institution he founded.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, as Dean put it, “We got a creepy old guy haunting a creepy old mental institution that’s been closed for over 65 years.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“A creepy old guy that’s into torture, apparently.” Sam had returned with a half amused, half concerned smile.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Eh, gotta make it interesting somehow.” Dean had joked back, and then they were on the road.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t a long drive. They didn’t have to go through any of the normal FBI or cop crap because the institution had been shut down so long ago that the government didn’t take much interest in it. It was a group of teens on Halloween (shocker) that had awakened the ghost and things had gone south from there. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The building had signs all over the place reading everything from “INCOMPATIBLE WITH HUMAN LIFE, STAND CLEAR” to “HIGH DANGER ZONE”. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Basically an average Wednesday for the brothers. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was creepy, even for them. Even in the middle of the afternoon, the place was pitch black inside. The lights didn’t work -because </span>
  <em>
    <span>of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> they didn’t- and all of the hallways were thin and bathed in darkness. The cement floors were covered in broken glass and rusty stains that looked like blood that had dried a long time ago. The rooms were small and identical, like college dorms. They each had a single bed with a metal frame and a light fixture on the ceiling, and that was it. Sam stayed right on Dean’s heels as they walked down the hall, both of their flashlights constantly swaying to light up the way. They didn’t split up until they reached a pair of staircases, one leading up and one leading down. They eyed each other wearily.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“We could check both together.” Dean suggested, not loving the idea of separating. This place was creepy enough when they were </span>
  <em>
    <span>together</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But Sam shook his head, “No. No, we should cover more ground. It’s just a ghost, Dean. We both got iron and salt pellets. It’ll be fine.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean was hesitant, but eventually he agreed. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright. Remember, we’re looking for a 65 year old body. All bones.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam nodded and then Dean was taking the staircase up and Sam started wandering down the thin, creaky staircase that led to the lower floor. He swallowed nervously as the flashlight lit the way. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His heart stopped when he saw what he’d stumbled upon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room was by far the largest one he’d come across thus far. It was probably 40 feet in every direction. The floors were cement and rough like sandpaper. There was the steady sound of water dripping and the pungent smell of mildew in the air. But that wasn’t the weird part. There were chains, ropes, chairs knocked over, and blood spatters </span>
  <em>
    <span>everywhere</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Needles, Drenched clothes, bones. Empty baths and chewed up gags.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Looked like he found the torture room.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit.” Sam whispered to himself, eyes widening. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It happened in seconds after that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a loud bang, his flashlight went out. Footsteps. Screaming. Hands around his neck. Legs cramping. Eyes slipping shut. Gasping for air. Laughs. Spots clouding his vision. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Blackness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He woke up in the bottom of a giant cement tank. The diameter of the floor was probably ten feet all the way around. The concrete walls probably rose twelve feet high. He felt his heart pounding. He didn’t remember how he got here. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There were no windows, but the top of the tank was wide open. He could see light straight up, but it was double his height to the opening. He would climb, but the walls had no grip, and just as he tried to stand up, he felt his leg being yanked back down. Sam jerked his head around to see why that was- and was greeted by a very unwelcome sight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was a thick steel chain wrapped around his ankle that tethered him to a giant knob in the concrete floor. It was probably three feet long- not offering him much movement. Immediately he checked his jeans, but cursed under his breath when he realized the punk ass ghost must have taken everything out of his pockets. Of course, that included his pickpocket. Dammit.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He turned to his left and felt a sliver of hope seep into him when his eye caught a glimpse of a seam in the wall. He scooted over as close as the chain holding his ankle would allow and sighed in relief. There was a seam identical to the first one three feet to the right and one connecting them at the top. It was some sort of hidden door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He couldn’t reach it. He groaned and grunted and even considered popping his shoulder out to extend his reach, but no matter what he did, he could not reach that door. There was nothing he had on him or near him that he could use to jimmy it open. And he could not get his ankle free. He was stuck.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Okay, deep breath. Work it out.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam stood up. He looked around and tried to figure out if and how he could get out on his own. He studied the chain to determine whether or not he could get it undone. All of his questions were answered with resounding </span>
  <em>
    <span>NO</span>
  </em>
  <span>’s. He could not climb smooth, 12 foot tall walls, he could not reach the door, he could not get the chain undone without some sort of sharp tool, and he could not wedge his foot out of the cuff- even if he dislocated it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He just had to wait for Dean. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which was all well and good until Sam started to realize that his feet were getting wet. He knit his eyebrows and peered down, eyes widening when he noticed that there was now a thin layer of water coating the floor. It was probably a centimeter high. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam swiveled as much as the steel chain allowed him to and felt the panic rise in his chest like a tsunami  when he saw five hoses jutting out of the walls all around the circumference of the tank. They were all dumping water in around him, but Sam couldn’t reach any of them. They were too far away- just like the door.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The water was to his ankles now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh fuck.” Sam cursed to himself, realizing what was happening very quickly. He jerked around, trying to tug at the chain in hopes of shaking something -</span>
  <em>
    <span>anything</span>
  </em>
  <span>- loose. He yelled for Dean, but no response came. His heart pounded faster.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The water was at his shins now, slowly crawling up inch by inch. It was rising way, </span>
  <em>
    <span>way</span>
  </em>
  <span> too fast for his liking. His jeans were starting to stick to his legs and the denim was turning a darker shade of blue. He peered up. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was nowhere for the water to go except the opening at the very top of the tank. It would fill this whole thing… and he was tethered to the ground.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dean!” He screamed as loud as he could, throat burning from the effort. It was fruitless. He could have been unconscious for hours, God only knows where the ghost dragged him to in this sick place. He could be nowhere </span>
  <em>
    <span>near</span>
  </em>
  <span> Dean. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The water was tickling his mid calf now, and Sam was trying to keep himself calm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bleeding out. Car crash. Split skill. Heart Attack. Bullet wound… Of all the ways Sam thought he would go, drowning to death in the bottom of a giant cement tank at a haunted mental institution was not one of them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He took a deep breath and carefully stepped up onto the knob sticking out of the ground- the big thing the chain was attached to. It got him just under a foot above the ground, so that the water was now sloshing just against his toes. All it did was buy him some time. Very little of it, at that.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It’d been roughly five minutes since the water started flooding in and it was about seven inches high, now. So, Sam estimated that the water was rising a little more than an inch every minute. At that rate, he had just about an hour and fifteen minutes before the water level rose above his head. With the additional three feet of chain, he could stay swimming above the water for another forty or fifty minutes, probably (That’s if he didn’t exhaust himself before then). But in around two hours, the water was going to rise over his head and the chain would keep him from floating up with it. Then he would drown. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tried messing with the chain again. He tried squeezing his foot out. Banging the steel against the concrete. Finding pressure points. He tried grabbing the hoses to slow down the water flow, but he could barely reach them, nevermind block them. There was literally nothing he could do except wait and hope that his brother would save him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the water rose to his knees, he waited and hoped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When it brushed his thighs, he waited and hoped.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When it hugged his hips, he </span>
  <em>
    <span>waited </span>
  </em>
  <span>and </span>
  <em>
    <span>hoped</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It wasn’t until the freezing cold water reached his stomach that a different, much more terrifying thought entered his mind: What if Dean was in a matching situation? What if Dean was in a tank just like this? What if the ghost had killed him? What if… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>What if the reason Dean didn’t come looking for Sam was because he needed Sam to be looking for </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was much harder to wait and have hope after thinking about that. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he couldn’t panic. Any energy he had, he needed to save. Soon, he’d need to tread water. For almost an hour. Or possibly less, if all went well and Dean wasn’t in danger and found him in time. Possibly </span>
  <em>
    <span>more</span>
  </em>
  <span>, if everything went as the pessimist in Sam believed it would and he ran out of energy and drowned. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The dread was the worst. He’d never felt anything like it. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Every other time he has been near death, he’s had something else to focus on. Something to pin his feelings on. Something to fight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Most of the time, he didn’t have time for dread. The Jake thing, the gunshots through his chest, the vampire bite… they all happened so quick. The cage was the one that he felt the most. It had the most time between thinking about his death and his actual demise. But even that… he could focus on comforting Dean, beating Lucifer, avoiding Michael. He had an apocalypse to concentrate on, he didn’t have time for dread. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even when it was Dean on the line, he hadn’t ever felt a dread like this. With Dean’s hell deal, he was able to fight for his brother’s life. Hunt Lilith. Make Dean’s life a little more bearable. He had other things to focus on. When mystery spot happened, he was able to put his energy into finding the trickster. It was the same with finding a cure for the mark of cain and fighting the darkness.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Right now, however, there was nothing to focus on but his impending doom. There was nothing to fight, nothing to distract him, nothing to find or destroy. Nothing but the water slowly getting higher and higher. It felt like it was mocking him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The time couldn’t pass any slower. A small part of him wanted to just let his legs go and submerge himself in the water to put an end to the horrific anticipation. Drown himself the water did it for him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he couldn’t bring himself to. What if Dean found him five minutes later? No… Sam would hold on for as long as he could. He owed that to his brother. No matter how difficult or painful it was. So he kept standing, breathing, and hoping. For as long as he could.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Time started to pass a hell of a lot faster when the water reached his neck. Suddenly his imminent death was excruciatingly close. It tickled his skin and he couldn’t help but tilt his head back to keep himself as far above the water as possible. It reached his Adam's apple and he started to panic.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Would it hurt? How long was it going to take? Would he go to hell? Purgatory?</span>
  </em>
  
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Heaven seemed like a pretty severe reach. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>What would happen to Dean? Would he make a deal? End up screwing himself?</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was on his tiptoes now, the water brushing his chin and wetting his hair in the back. Any second now he would have to start keeping himself above the water. For as long as he could. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>One more time, he yelled.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dean!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was quieter than the first time. He couldn’t muster nearly as much strength. Nobody heard him, anyway. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The water kissed his cheek and then Sam was up and off the ground. He was treading water now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Great. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tried to put his mind in a happy place. Find a good memory to hang onto. A distraction was what he needed to stop himself from letting go too soon. To keep him motivated. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He smiled a little when his brain picked the memory for him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was late in the October of ‘95. Sam was twelve and Dean was four months away from his seventeen birthday. For two weeks straight, John had worked them like dogs. They traveled all around the Dakotas and then down to Texas on a lead for the yellow eyed demon. No extra nights in motels, no full nights of sleep, no slowing down. They were all exhausted. It wasn’t until Sam broke his collarbone in the middle of a fight with a werewolf that they slowed down for a moment. It sounds like a weird sequence of events to make up a good memory, but… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>After he broke that bone, they </span>
  <em>
    <span>finally</span>
  </em>
  <span> took a break. It was the first time in weeks that they pressed pause on the hunting. John let Sam and Dean stay in the motel by themselves for a couple nights. He went out to find a bar, and the brothers played cards and soda pong. They watched movies and practiced sparring. They laughed and sang along to old records. Dean even bought him ice cream. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was one of the rare times Sam felt like an actual kid. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The warmth from the memory was quickly sucked out by the soreness in his body, so he tried desperately to find another to cling onto. Stop himself from focusing on keeping his head above the water.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He landed on the Christmas of 1998. Sam was 13 and Dean was just about to turn 18. Up until that point, holidays had been more of an inconvenience than a celebration. Their father barely acknowledged Christmas, and if he did, it was in a snide comment about how ‘big companies monopolized children’s fantasies’. When they were little kids, he was a little more gentle with his resentment for the holiday. He never let them believe in Santa, but he would stop hunting for a few days and let them hang ornaments on the fridge with magnets. But once Sam turned nine, Christmas became a hateful day. John would sneer at joyful Macy’s commercials with happy families and change the channel when holiday songs came on. Sam always assumed it had to do with mom. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Regardless… in 1996, Sam and Dean had their first Christmas </span>
  <em>
    <span>without dad</span>
  </em>
  <span>. John was on a hunting trip with Pastor Jim and the two of them were staying at Bobby’s cabin for the three days before Christmas, and the two days after. It was </span>
  <em>
    <span>sweet</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bobby bought them new sheaths for their guns and they each got a special ornament with their first initial on it to hang on the tree in Bobby’s living room. He made them hot cocoa and cooked a turkey for dinner. It was just about as domestic as they got.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But what made it really special -one of his best memories- was that Dean’s birthday was just under a month after Christmas, and Sam was finally old enough to truly give his brother a proper birthday. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Bobby helped him with the plan. Sam was going to go all out this year. Make up for all the birthdays that he wasn’t able to give Dean as special of a day as Dean always gave him on his. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He made a cherry pie with </span>
  <em>
    <span>real</span>
  </em>
  <span> cherries, not the kind that come in a can. He bought him a new flannel that had fluffy lining for the cold months, and secretly got himself into trouble the night before so that any and all of John’s frustration would be taken out on Sam and not Dean. It was perfect. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“How’d you afford all this, Sammy?” Dean had asked him with wide, awed eyes and an appreciative smile. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam just shrugged, “I uh… I kinda let kids pay me to take their tests for them. Easy money.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He still got goosebumps when he thought about how hard Dean had laughed at that. It was the most happiness Sam had seen on his face in months, if not years. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Little brother’s swindling the other eighth graders, huh?” He had joked as he rustled Sam’s hair with a grin, “Not bad, kiddo. Not bad.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could almost feel a phantom big brother hand running through his hair, teasing him. But it wasn’t Dean. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The water was at his hair now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When the chain snagged below him and he could no longer rise up with the water, Sam let out an almost inaudible cry. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This was it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The water rushed in like it owned him. It was cold and murky, threatening to steal away the air that gave Sam life. It hit the bottom of his chin and he accidentally parted his lips in a gasp of surprise. The frothy water immediately slipped into his mouth and he gagged. It tasted awful, like a dirty river, foul and unclean. He spit it back out and squinted his eyes, trying to keep his mouth shut, but finding it difficult to do so. He was exhausted and his legs were starting to burn from the exertion. He needed both his mouth and nose to breathe through the exercise. His limbs were moving like a clockwork doll and his mind was losing focus faster than a child at a fair. There was only fear. Fear enough to make Sam fight harder. He needed his head to stay above the water for as long as it could. He needed his movements to be calm and calculated. If there was even a sliver of a chance Dean was looking for him, he needed to stay alive for as long as he possibly could to give his brother as much </span>
  <em>
    <span>time</span>
  </em>
  <span> as he possibly could.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He tilted his head back gently when the water reached just below his nose, heart pounding as he tried to keep his face above the water. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Any second, now. Any second. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dean!” He shouted as loud as he could one last time, voice strained and breathless.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam’s heart was pounding. Legs thrashing violently. Eyes burning with unshed tears. The water crawled over his chin and he took one last, deep breath and held it. In a matter of seconds, his entire face was covered. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>At first it wasn’t that bad. It was actually a pretty familiar sensation. Like when he was a kid and dad booked a motel near a public pool in the summer. He and Dean would swim around for hours playing Marco Polo until their father picked them up later in the day- usually bloodied up from a hunt. Sometimes Sam ducked under the water and held his breath. Sometimes he’d even count to see how long he could stay under. Or Dean would tease him by playfully holding his head under the water for a few seconds.  </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That’s what it felt like at first. Like he was a little kid again, holding his breath. His cheeks puffed out and fingertips turning wrinkly. He almost lost himself in that thought. So much so, that when his cheeks started to burn, he went to swim upwards. He kicked his legs and pushed his arms up and then down in a thrusting motion. But he didn’t move. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was a helium balloon nailed to the ground. Every single fiber within him wanted to float. His body craved it- was </span>
  <em>
    <span>begging </span>
  </em>
  <span>for it. The incredible pressure compressed his chest, forcing his lungs to burn as if on fire. His heart was hammering, increasing in intensity and speed like a bird trapped in a cage. His throat seared in agony with the rising pressure of trapped air. Every atom in him desired to rise to the surface of the water; every cell told him it was time to swim up. To breathe. To float.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But he </span>
  <em>
    <span>couldn’t</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The chain gripped his ankle like the jaws of a predator, locked and not planning to release him anytime soon. The metal was too thick, too powerful. No matter how hard he tried to wedge his foot out of the cuff… he couldn’t. He was well and truly </span>
  <em>
    <span>screwed</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He knew the second he stopped holding his breath, he was done. Inhaling the water would rid his body of air and he would sink to the bottom as pure dead weight. He knew that’s what he had waiting for him, and part of him just wanted to get it over with. The bigger part, however, knew he had to stay alive the longest he possibly could to give </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dean</span>
  </em>
  <span> the longest possible chance to find him and save him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But it was becoming increasingly difficult to keep his mouth closed and nose blocked. His cheeks ached and his lungs were on fire- begging for oxygen. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His thigh burned as the chain kept his leg down but the water pulled the rest of his body up. His head was pounding, and every cell in Sam’s body was screaming for oxygen. He wanted to fight, but his head felt like it was going to literally explode. He had to take a breath. It was instinct. Pure physiology. It was like having a gun to his head and being told to not let his heart beat. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Of course</span>
  </em>
  <span> it would beat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And just like he could not voluntarily stop his heart from beating, he could not stop his lungs from inhaling. Whether it was air or briny water. His body was pushed to the limit, and he was too tired and in pain to keep holding his breath. So he sent a prayer up to heaven above that Dean would be okay, and opened his mouth. He exhaled the air left in his mouth and, on reflex, proceeded to inhale. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The moment that the cool water rushed in, Sam knew he was dead. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Opening his mouth again, this time to scream, Sam let out a string of bubbles. Despair filled him with every struggling gulp. Icy cold water was thrust up his nostrils, a stream cascading into the back of his throat and nose, sending jets of pain through his body. He gave up on the screaming -on the thrashing- and just allowed the water to hold his body. As his vision blurred out and his consciousness faltered, Sam’s body became numb and he waited silently for the numbing hands of death to suck away every last piece of life left within him. Slowly, the commotion and chaotic sounds of the water and his own blood pumping drowned out to a low hum, buzzing at his ears, gradually muting into silence. The pain faded away, too.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was almost peaceful.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His lungs sucked in the water as his body jerked. After a few inhales, his body started losing buoyancy. He began to sink. Further and further into the darkness until the chain didn’t feel so restrictive anymore. In moments he would fall to the bottom of the tank, leg tethered to the center of the floor, nothing more than flesh and bones ready to decay in the current. He was losing the will to care. There were worse ways to go. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Darkness enveloped him. The water closed in and red and black splotches danced in front of him. He couldn’t figure out whether his eyes were open or closed. The coldness he had felt when the water first started flooding the tank was completely gone, now. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It should be scary, he thought absentmindedly. Death should be scary. Staring up at ten feet of water above you </span>
  <em>
    <span>should be scary</span>
  </em>
  <span>. But it just wasn’t. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam’s entire body was throbbing, and his lungs felt like they’d been set on fire. Slowly, black began to seep in at the edges of his vision. He tried to open his mouth to breathe, but only got more water. Then, ever so slowly, everything started to fade away. Painfully, </span>
  <em>
    <span>quietly</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It wasn’t all jolty and violent like the movies made it seem. He wasn’t thrashing, or screaming, and there wasn’t water sloshing around everywhere. It was just quiet. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stared up at the water above him and let out a barely there groan when his back hit the concrete floor. His ears were throbbing painfully under the pressure. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam stared up at the little bit of light he could see coming from the opening at the top of the tank as the fatigue won out. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>With one last inhale and a rush of cool water, he closed his eyes and gave into the darkness. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>—————</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No sign of McGill.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean sighed. He had just spent half an hour scouring an entire floor for a ghost that wasn’t there. Awesome.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He grunted impatiently to himself as he turned and walked back to the staircase. With soft and quiet footsteps, he trailed down the stairs in an effort to find Sam. He just hoped he wasn’t too late, because if the ghost hadn’t come after him, there was a good chance that it went after Sam, and… no. Sam would be fine.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He took a deep breath and did a quick once-over of the main floor to make sure the ghost and Sam weren’t there before walking down the stairs to the basement. And holy hell… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a freaking </span>
  <em>
    <span>torture room</span>
  </em>
  <span>. The kind that only existed in the movies. There were chains and ropes and blood stains… Dean couldn’t tell if he thought it was cool, or if he was scared out of his mind.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sammy?” He called once he shook himself out of it, following the soft light from his flashlight as he walked slowly through the giant basement. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He didn’t get a response, but didn’t think too much of it. It was a huge room. His brother was probably just out of earshot. Or he was already in a different room or another floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean steadily made his way through the room, wrinkling his nose at the mildewy smell that filled the air. It was sharp and pungent. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He stepped over the bloodstains and as his foot landed on a piece of glass that crackled under his sole, he felt all the hairs on the back of his neck stand straight up. A wave of cold air rifled through his body and he went crossed eyed as he watched the breath come out of his mouth in a thick cloud of fog.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well howdy, Doctor Creepy.” He teased snidely as he smirked and whipped around, hand immediately jumping down to rest on the gun secured to his hip. Salt pellets loaded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You got the wrong guys to notice ya, buddy.” He announced, but suddenly found his smile faltering a bit when his eyes landed on the apparition in front of him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There were very few things in this world that scared Dean Winchester. This ghost was no exception. But… he did freak him out a little.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His left eye was twitching and glazed white, lips parted with a thick layer of blood between them. His torn clothes were soaking wet and his too-long pants were dragging on the floor behind him. There was a patch of gray hair on his head that was damp and matted to his skin. He looked like he crawled out of the bottom of the Titanic- about a hundred years after it sank.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Have to say, you look pretty gnarly, dude.” Dean made a grossed out face, scrunching his face up as he stalked forward. He took the iron rod he was carrying and swung it right through the ghost. He disappeared. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And then reappeared not five seconds later on Dean’s other side. The hunter whipped around and went to hit him again with the iron, but McGill flung him across the room before he could. Dean grunted as he slammed back-first into the wall.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’ve got more of a mouth on you than your partner did.” McGill spoke in a voice that was creepily monotone. He laughed a little as he stepped forward. The smugness was rolling off of him in thick, tangible waves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean’s whole body went rigid. Liquid rage and worry poured through him as he went to stand up. </span>
  <em>
    <span>‘You’ve got more of a mouth than your partner did’</span>
  </em>
  <span>... The son of a bitch had run into Sam.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What did you do to him?!” Dean seethed, sending a glare at the ghost that was absolutely lethal. He was burning with anger. Before he could stand, however, he was being forced down again.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The ghost thrust his hand out and squeezed his fist. Suddenly, Dean felt his throat being constricted and he reached up to claw at his neck, trying to release the tension. Fruitlessly. He felt the pressure get tighter around his throat simultaneous to McGill tightening his fist in the air.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> He gasped for breath, eyes starting to water.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Your friend is already dead.” The ghost announced, voice still monotone but threatening nonetheless, “You get the hell out of my home before you’re dead too.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean felt his stomach dip and his heart squeeze tight. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No…” He whisper-begged, still croaking for air and pulling on his neck. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And as if on cue, there was suddenly a noise interrupting the two of them. It was somewhat distant, and definitely strained, but Dean would know that voice anywhere.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dean!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was Sam. Without a shadow of a doubt. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>That scream lit a fire under the older Winchester. He kicked out and was able to throw the ghost off guard enough to get his throat free. He gasped for air before grabbing onto his gun and holding it right in front of him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Not so dead after all, huh?” Dean barked as he shot a salt pellet straight through the ghost, making him go out in a cloud of smoke. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>McGill reappeared seconds later, flinging the salt gun across the room with a smirk.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, </span>
  <em>
    <span>dying</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” he corrected himself as he approached Dean. He looked down at his wrist for a nonexistent watch before tilting his head back and forth and commenting, “He’s got another five minutes, maybe?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean felt goosebumps rise on his skin.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“What are you talking about?” He hissed, gripping the iron rod tight in his fist.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>McGill just shrugged, as if he didn’t know. He was mocking Dean. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You son of a bitch!” Dean screamed as he lunged forward and slashed the iron rod straight through the ghost.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span> In the time the ghost was gone, Dean ran towards where he heard the scream come from. With wide eyes and an alarmed voice, he called, “Sam?!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>There was no response.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No luck?” The ghost came up behind him, acting surprised as a way to mock Dean further.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And just as Dean was about to yell at the ghost to reveal Sam, he caught something out of the corner of his eye. Right in the left back corner of the room was a casket. An old, broken down, wooden casket. Son of a bitch, was it Dean’s birthday?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Actually, I think I have </span>
  <em>
    <span>some</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He smirked smugly at the ghost before running to the caset, lighting a match, and throwing it down. He watched the whole thing erupt in flames, and waited for a moment in blind hope that the coffin did indeed hold the bones of Gregory Thomas McGill.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Crap.” He yelled at first when the ghost didn’t go up in flames, but right as McGill charged him, he burst into fiery smoke.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean sighed in relief.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But only allowed himself to revel for a second, because he quickly came back to the very real conclusion that Sam was still in danger. Five minutes away from death, according to McGill. That was not good. At all.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sammy?!” He yelled as he looked around. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The room he was in was huge, but there was only one other door besides the one he’d come in through.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He ran over to it and cursed under his breath when he noticed there was no door handle. Not even a hinge. It was practically just three random, connected lines. Who knew if it even went all the way through the wall. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He looked down with furrowed brows when he started to feel his sock become soggy, and only then realized that the concrete surrounding the door was a darker shade than the rest. It was wet. There was water seeping through the bottom of the door. Crap… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean’s heart rate skyrocketed. Sam had talked about McGill being a torture-prone psychopath. He waterboarded people, did Chinese water torture… No, no, no… whatever was going on in there, Dean needed to get in and stop it. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Fast</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He wedged his fingernails into the seam and pulled as hard as he could, but it didn’t budge.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on.” He grunted as he pulled again, stabilizing himself on his feet and drawing strength from his upper body. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sammy?!” He yelled as he landed a powerful kick to the bottom of the door. It budged just the tiniest bit and he almost shouted in relief. But Sam still hadn’t said another word and that was making him very, very worried, “Can you hear me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nothing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His panic intensified and he kicked the door again, pulling simultaneously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“COME ON!” Dean screamed as he landed another powerful blow on the door. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that was it. The concrete door caved and opened just slightly, only to be knocked down within seconds by the force of hundreds of gallons of water behind it. The tsunami pushed Dean back onto his ass. He slid on the ground as the water poured out all over the floor. There was so much of it. Way too much. Dean didn’t even have time to process his shock because as soon as he was able to stand up, he looked into the room he’d just opened the door to. He almost fell to his knees when he saw the body sprawled out on the floor. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The emotions were overwhelming. His whole body lit up. His eyes widened, his stomach dipped, his heart pounded. The adrenaline took over the fear, however, and he was immediately running in and landing on his knees beside Sam. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh God.” He whimpered painfully as he looked down at his little brother. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam was soaking wet. His long hair was plastered across his forehead and all of his clothes were stuck to his body. His lips were practically purple, his eyes were closed, and his skin was snow pale. His stomach wasn’t rising and falling like it should be.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean’s heart beat intensified. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sam?” He asked immediately, his voice panicked and filled with dread. He placed a gentle hand on Sam’s cheek and winced at how cold the skin was under his palm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean was quite wet himself from the water that poured out the door. His hair was dripping buckets of water and all of his clothes were sticking uncomfortably to his skin. There were goosebumps all over his arms and legs from the freezing water, but he couldn’t care less. All he could feel was the dread filling his gut like liquid metal, creating a solid mass that pulled all of his energy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sam!” He yelled again as he grabbed onto his brother’s shoulders and shook them. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Nothing.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean cursed under his breath and pressed his shaky fingers to Sam’s pale, wet neck and waited. The seconds passed, and there was nothing. No pulse beneath his fingers. His throat clogged up with tears and he did everything he could to hold back a sob.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“No, no, no, no…” He started rambling, the tears burning in his eyes, “You are </span>
  <em>
    <span>not </span>
  </em>
  <span>leaving me!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He immediately grabbed Sam’s head and pulled it back so that his chin was pointing up towards the sky. He scooted on his knees until he was in position and then started doing chest compressions. Sam would probably have bruises on his chest from how hard Dean was pounding on him. He pressed and pressed until it was time to give his brother air. Then he leaned down, pinched his fingers over Sam’s nose, parted his cold lips, and blew into his mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Sam!” He begged loudly as he blew a second time and then started compressions again. He kept his eyes trained on Sam the whole time.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He pinched his nose and breathed into his mouth again, silently praying to every god that anyone ever believed in that Sam would wake up. Dean wasn’t an expert in CPR by any means, but it was all he could do. It had to work. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>had </span>
  </em>
  <span>to. He was not losing his brother today. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on. Come on.” Dean pleaded with Sam as he pounded on his chest, tears blurring his vision, “Come back to me!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He lowered himself to Sam’s mouth again, holding his purple lips open, blocking his nose, and blowing his own oxygen into his brother’s lungs. He did that twice before rising back up again and placing his hands one over the other. He kept pounding. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His lips were so cold. They were almost inhuman in color, and they were cracked and chapped from being submerged under the water’s surface for so long. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So long… Dean didn’t even </span>
  <em>
    <span>know</span>
  </em>
  <span> how long Sam had been under the water. He hoped it was seconds, but it could’ve been minutes… he could be giving CPR to a dead man. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>No. </span>
  <em>
    <span>No.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Dammit, Sam!” He screamed, throat scratchy and breaths hitched. The panic was flooding through his body like adrenaline, “Wake up!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He counted out another thirty chest compressions, heart pounding in his chest and tears running down his cheeks like mini rivers.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Another two breaths, and then another thirty compressions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Come on, Sam!” He urged, arms shaking and breaths hitched. He was practically screaming now, “Come on!”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two breaths. Thirty compressions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Please</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” Dean pleaded, vision blurred over with tears. He was pounding slower now, the emotions starting to take over and overwhelm his physical capabilities. His biceps were burning from pounding on Sam’s chest.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Please, Sam. Come on!” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Two breaths. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wake up!” He yelled, voice raw and broken. His and Sam’s mixed saliva flew from his mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Thirty compressions.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Wake up.” He begged again, quieter. More broken.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was about to start another thirty compressions when suddenly there was a choked off gagging noise from below him and he looked down in shock. Sam’s eyes were fluttering open and he was gurgling up water through his mouth with a pained moan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sammy?!” It was all devastation and hope this time, his voice unlike anything it normally sounded like. It was heavier, throatier, deeper…</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He watched with wide, tear-soaked eyes as Sam jerked on the ground, spinning his head to the side and puking up so much water it had to hurt. He made gross, squelching noises as the water poured out of his mouth, eyes red rimmed and stomach convulsing. He gagged and choked, tears pouring down his face as he let it all go. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Holy shit!” Dean gasped as he swallowed down the overwhelming emotions. Dean’s entire body was heavy and tired from the emotional strain of what just happened. He was still trying to wrap his head around the whole thing. He simply held Sam’s shoulder as his brother convulsed, firmly supporting him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You’re okay. You’re okay. I’m here.” He soothed, not sure who he was trying to convince more- Sam or himself. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Eventually Sam stopped yacking up water and he laid back down on his back, eyes drooping and breaths wheezy. The kid looked horrible. But he was </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean cried out in desperation and relief. He grabbed Sam by the soaking wet collar and pulled him tight to his chest, raking his fingers through his hair and closing his eyes to revel in the feeling of his brother </span>
  <em>
    <span>alive</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He gripped him so tight his knuckles started to turn white. Their wet shirts stuck together in an uncomfortable way and the mixed water from the tank, Sam’s puke, their saliva, and Dean’s tears all mingled on their skin. It was sticky, and it was gross, and it was chafing everywhere. But neither of them cared even a little bit. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Oh God.” Dean all but sobbed as he pulled his hands even tighter around Sam. The added pressure on the younger’s chest made him groan painfully into Dean’s neck. But the older of the two couldn't care less. He had been so close to losing his brother not even a minute ago, and… he </span>
  <em>
    <span>needed</span>
  </em>
  <span> him close. He needed to know he was here. Alive. So, Sam could deal with a little soreness from the hug. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You had me for a second there, kiddo.” Dean laughed into Sam’s hair. But it wasn’t a happy laugh, or even a relieved one. It was a broken laugh. A </span>
  <em>
    <span>what the hell would I have done if I lost you </span>
  </em>
  <span>laugh. It was laced with tears and grief that almost was. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam just whimpered a bit by Dean’s ear, unable to make use of his frail and thin voice. Inhaling and then yacking up literal </span>
  <em>
    <span>pints</span>
  </em>
  <span> of cold water would do that to a person. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>In response, Dean squeezed his eyes closed even more, fighting back the tears. He tried to control each inhale and count every exhale to keep himself from falling apart, fingers tightening their death grip in Sam’s wet, shaggy hair. Sam was still dribbling a bit out of both his nose and mouth, but Dean didn’t care. He had come so, so, </span>
  <em>
    <span>so </span>
  </em>
  <span>close to losing him.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Thought…” Sam started, testing out his voice, but he ran out of breath so he had to pause before he could finish the thought, voice still weak, “... thought you… m-might be dead.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean shifted his leg underneath him to better hold both of their weights. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Well, I’m not.” He breathed out, his voice both relieved and tense at the same time. He still hadn’t loosened his grip on Sam, “And neither are you.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam didn’t even have the energy to nod, he just swallowed and immediately regretted it because more water slid down his throat and then he was gagging and spitting briny water down Dean’s back. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Urgh,” He groaned, “M’sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean reached up with a shaky hand and wiped at Sam’s mouth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Don’t worry about it.” He immediately shut him down, too overwhelmed with the emotional heaviness of their situation to be grossed out or mad in any way, “Shirt’s old anyway.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I…” Sam started to talk but his throat clogged up and he choked, breaths coming out in pained wheezes. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean winced at the noise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Sh, sh.” He soothed, “Don’t try and talk, okay? Give yourself a minute. Focus on breathing.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam nodded and leaned further into Dean’s chest, enjoying the feeling of his brother’s warmth. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean’s hand slipped up to Sam’s forehead and he shuddered at how cold the damp skin was under his hand. Sam was shivering against him, his hands clammy and lips blue. He wondered how long Sam had to have been in the water for him to be </span>
  <em>
    <span>this</span>
  </em>
  <span> cold. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Jesus, you’re freezing.” He remarked out loud, the worry patent in his tone, “We gotta get you out of these clothes.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They both knew why without it having to be said. Hypothermia was a very scary thing. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam just shuddered and whispered low, “N-not hypo… thermia.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean raised a brow, still holding his brother’s body close to his own, “Yeah, and how do you know that?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam squinted and sighed, “Not cold ‘nough.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Alright, sure.” Dean acknowledged, not entirely sure how lucid his brother was, “Either way, you need to get warm.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam jerked his head in a small nod.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I’m gonna get that chain off your ankle. You okay to stay here for a minute?” Dean asked softly, pulling back enough to make eye contact with Sam. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The younger Wichester nodded. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” Dean asserted, patting Sam’s cheek once with his hand before gently lowering him back down to the ground. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The hoses were still pouring out water around them, but it was all flowing right out the door. There were barely two inches coating the ground. Because of that, Dean was easily able to kneel down by Sam’s ankle and get a read on the chain. It was thick and steel-plated, definitely an old-timey thing. It would take some serious machinery to get that thing unhooked, but luckily, it had a lock on the end by Sam’s ankle. A lock that would be impossible to undo without any type of sharp object, but one that he could definitely pick. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean gently put a hand on Sam’s shin to comfort both of them as he took his lock pick out of his pocket and went to work. It took a solid minute to get it undone, and then he was yanking it off of Sam’s foot as gingergerly as he could. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Ghost?” Sam asked, the dread patent in his voice, his breaths still unstable and strained. That one word held a host of questions. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Where is it? Did you find it? Did you kill it? Is the hunt over? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could tell by the way Dean was worrying his bottom lip that he was trying to not let Sam’s patent breathing problems worry him too much. He’d only just </span>
  <em>
    <span>nearly drowned</span>
  </em>
  <span>. It would wear off soon. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“It’s done.” Dean assured him, patting his shoulder firmly, “I took care of it. You know, because you were too busy almost drowning to help.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was a gentle tease, but his voice only conveyed worry and fear. Maybe some relief, too. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam just grumbled a bit in return, too tired to delve into real words.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean shuffled on his knees to be level with Sam’s upper body again. He gently brushed the wet hair away from his brother’s eyes.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You okay?” He asked softly, the worry back on his face. His question was a serious one. He asked it in his patented big-brother, overprotective tone. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam thought about it for a moment. He swallowed and winced as he did a mental check of his state. His chest was burning like fire and his throat was killing him. His nose and mouth hurt like </span>
  <em>
    <span>bitches</span>
  </em>
  <span>, and he was incredibly cold, but… he’d had worse. </span>
  <em>
    <span>Dean</span>
  </em>
  <span> had had worse. He wasn’t going to let his pain hinder him. He wasn’t weak. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, he did as Winchesters do, and lied about it.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“M’fine.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean’s look was extraordinarily skeptical, but he shook his head dismissively and grabbed onto Sam’s shoulder.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Think you can get up?” He asked with a slight grimace. His lips tilted up to the left and one eye squinted in a way that displayed his hesitant hope.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam swallowed and winced. Anything and everything that flowed down his throat felt like razor blades. He huffed out a breath and tried to move his legs. He was able to get them folded up, and then maneuvered so he was balancing on his forearms. His whole body ached and burned in an extremely unpleasant way, but he didn’t feel completely out of it. Plus, he needed to help Dean in any way he could. No way could his brother carry him out of here.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I think.” He answered quietly, voice still strained and frail. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean nodded, but he still had disbelief all over his face and in his voice when he offered, “Come on, I’ll help you.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam wasn’t a fan of needing help. Not in the slightest. But… he honestly didn’t think he could get up on his own. Not with the pressure weighing his chest down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So he begrudgingly threw an arm over Dean’s shoulders and let his brother pull him up to his feet with a groan. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“</span>
  <em>
    <span>Fuck</span>
  </em>
  <span>.” He seethed the second he was upright. All of the pressure and pain shifted. It was all through his upper body now. Deep in his chest and belly. All across his throat and face. He hadn’t meant to complain out loud, but he couldn’t help it. It </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean’s eyes narrowed a bit in sympathy. He placed the hand that wasn’t wrapped around Sam’s back right over his heart to steady him as he asked, “We alright?” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam didn’t even think about the actual answer to that question before blurting out, “Yeah.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean eyed him up and down, and Sam thought he was about to protest, but… he backed down. Probably realized that fighting Sam was wasted energy. Neither one of them was going to cave. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay.” He sighed, “Let’s go.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam took a deep breath that set his chest on fire and then they were slowly walking out of the room, Sam leaning heavily on Dean but managing to move his own feet. His brother was more of a crutch than anything. He tried to hide all of the hisses and moans he desperately wanted to make. His body hurt like a motherfucker. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>When they reached the staircase, Dean sent Sam a weary glance. Sam felt the dread build in his stomach. Walking had hurt, but climbing up thirteen steps with his lungs working overtime and every breath burning? </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Fun times. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You good?” Dean checked as they climbed up the first stair. Sam’s chest was still burning, but he didn’t feel much worse than before. Nor better.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Mhm.” He hummed in agreement, concentrating on not falling down and taking Dean with him. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They made it up the stairs slowly, with Dean carrying more of Sam’s weight than the younger would ever admit to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was weird. Sam had nearly drowned, sure, but he was fine </span>
  <em>
    <span>now</span>
  </em>
  <span>. He had been resuscitated, he coughed up all the water, his lungs were taking in oxygen and exhaling CO2… He should be fine. So why did he feel so fucking weak? Why did he feel so burnt out? Why did he feel so </span>
  <em>
    <span>powerless</span>
  </em>
  <span>?</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He could tell Dean had similar worries. It was in all of the little gazes he kept sending his way. They were short and hardly ever direct, but Sam caught them almost every time. Dean was thinking the same thing as him. He always was. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>They made it to the impala after several little breaks to catch their (Sam’s) breath, many hisses of discomfort (Again, Sam), and tons of worried glances (Dean). </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Okay, there’s a hospital on 54. Should be fifteen minutes away. I’ll make it in ten.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam’s eyebrows shot up. They had just gotten situated in the car and Dean said he was checking the time, not looking for local </span>
  <em>
    <span>hospitals.</span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His brother’s eyes were concentrated on the dashboard as he cranked the heat all the way up. It wasn’t even that cold outside, but Sam needed to be warmed up desperately. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Take that flannel off.” Dean mumbled as he helped Sam shrug off the damp shirt. It would at least give his arms more access to the heat. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam didn’t let the hospital comment slide, however. As the flannel fell to the foot well, he groaned in disapproval, “Dean, we don’t need to go to a hospital. I’m fine.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Hey, at least his voice was getting somewhat back on track now. It was still weak and softer than it should be, but he was no longer coughing up a lung between every syllable. He’d call that progress. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean gave him a serious glance as he combatted,“You’re barely breathing, Sam.” </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Which was kinda true. It felt like an eighteen wheeler was parked right on top of his chest, pressing down on his lungs and squeezing him for all he was worth. He was convinced that at least one of his ribs was broken, but Dean didn’t need to worry about that. A hospital couldn’t do anything about it, either. They would just throw some bandages on and tell him to ice it until it healed itself. He could deal with it on his own. And that included his lungs. He had taken quite the hit, but… </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I just need some rest. I’ll sleep it off. It’s not that big of a deal, alright?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that might have been more convincing if Sam didn’t wince at the end of his sentence.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean tilted his head and zeroed his gaze in on Sam’s face, the skepticism rolling off of his shoulders in waves.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“You look like crap, Sam. I mean, I…” He breathed out and shifted his gaze away from Sam. He looked at the road and blinked a few times before turning back and saying with a tight frown, “I had to bring you back, you get that, right? You were </span>
  <em>
    <span>dead</span>
  </em>
  <span>.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam looked down, suddenly feeling very guilty. He swallowed nervously.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“I know.” He acknowledged quietly, “I’m sorry.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean sighed and closed his eyes for a moment, playing with his bottom lip. Sam could tell he was about to speak, but he wasn’t finished with his own thoughts, so he continued before he had to interrupt his brother.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“But I am okay.” He insisted, immediately feeling his lungs burn in protest. His voice was still barely his own, all frail and breathless, “I promise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean shook his head as he eyed Sam up and down. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>The kid was still in soaking wet clothes, sleeves sticking to his arms and tee shirt plastered to his chest. There were goosebumps apparent on any and all of his exposed skin, and his lips were still a shade of purple that was incredibly unnatural. His stomach rose and fell rapidly with his labored breaths, and every inhale produced a slight wheezing noise that made something in Dean’s chest tighten. Sam’s hair was stuck to his cheeks and his hands were shaking. His voice was weak and cracking and so pinched that Dean kind of wanted him to just stop talking. It was a sick noise that churned his stomach and he was not a fan of his brother sounding so… </span>
  <em>
    <span>unSamlike</span>
  </em>
  <span>. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He would be much more content if they went to a hospital and a doctor confirmed that Sam was okay. He just wanted that peace of mind. He knew that as horrible as his brother looked, he probably felt ten times worse. Sam was a master of hiding his pain. Dean would know, the kid learned it from </span>
  <em>
    <span>him</span>
  </em>
  <span>.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He also knew that Sam was going to put up a fight the whole way there. He would rather deal with dental floss stitches and beer ice packs than go to a freaking hospital. Dean could fight him until he was blue in the face, but that wouldn’t change. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And honestly? Dean almost lost Sam today. He literally saw his brother’s life flash before his eyes. One second he was dead, and the next he was breathing again by some fucking miracle. A large part of him was just so relieved and grateful that Sam was alive that he just… he really didn’t feel like fighting with him right now.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, he’d compromise.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>“Fine.” He flexed his jaw, still watching Sam carefully, “I’ll give you tonight. But if you aren’t better in the morning, I am driving your ass straight to the ER, you understand me?”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Sam threw both hands up in a show of surrender. He nodded, “Yeah, okay. Promise.”</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>He was so grateful Dean was dropping it that he didn’t even think about the possibility of going to the hospital tomorrow. It seemed like a distant and unreal chance.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Dean gave him one last overly protective glance and then he was turning towards the road and shifting the car into drive.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>----------------</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It took Dean way longer than normal to fall asleep. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Way, way, </span>
  <em>
    <span>way </span>
  </em>
  <span>longer than normal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Number one, they were in a motel after a few weeks in the bunker so the lumpy mattress took a little bit of getting used to. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Number two, he was worried sick about his brother. Sam was in pain. He was damn good at hiding it, but Dean was even better at sensing it. He knew that kid inside and out. And Dean couldn’t relax when he knew that Sam was hurting. It was like trying to swim with a broken arm. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Number three, Sam was snoring. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And okay, Sam was a giant dude that slept on his back. He snored. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>But this was different. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>This wasn’t the typical, timely snore of Sam’s that became so rhythmic Dean could ignore it and fall asleep. No… This was a pained snore. It was a chest-is-on-fire snore. It was even worse than the one he took on when he had a cold and his chest was congested. It was loud, and uneven, and it sounded </span>
  <em>
    <span>hurt</span>
  </em>
  <span>. Each one sounded like it clawed its way out of his throat. They were broken and hitched. Breathy and scratchy. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And it wasn’t like Dean couldn’t sleep because they were too loud. No, he’s slept through louder things. He was a damn hunter. So it wasn’t the noise. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>It was the concern. It was the waiting for it to get better- out of Sam’s system. It was the million questions flooding his brain.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <em>
    <span>Why is he snoring so loud? Does he have serious lung damage? Broken ribs? Should I have taken him to the hospital? What if it doesn’t get better? </span>
  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>So, yeah. It took him longer to get to sleep than normal.</span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And even when he did eventually drift off, it was only to be awoken a few hours later by his alarm ringing at a pitch that was surely unnatural. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>Even though the night had been rocky, in the morning, Sam did feel better. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>His lungs still ached and his throat still burned, but he was okay. He was making progress. </span>
</p><p> </p><p>
  <span>And that’s all Dean could ask for, right? </span>
</p>
  </div><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_foot_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Thanks for reading!</p><p>Feel free to leave comments, but keep them nice/constructive please! </p><p>:))))</p></blockquote></div></div>
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